When Emperors Live

Mac sits at the desk for hours on end. From 4PM to 8PM, he needed to get his project DONE by the end of Friday. Between balancing his work at the security office as well as trying to meet his deadline, his creative cloud of imagination grew stale as time progressed. The ticking of the clock haunting as well as grating his nerves. He groaned as he dropped the weight of his big ol head onto the table. “Oww...” he sighs as boredom strains the back of his neck.   

10PM arrives and power begins to flicker. For Mac, he didn’t heed the broadcast about FLOOD WARNING caused by the severe weather approaching Dallas. He couldn’t afford to listen to such news, because ignoring would lead to further doubt – doubt that would give credence to his lack of motivation. The last thing he and his anxiety needs ANOTHER power outage. He has spent on record 3 DAYS, 7 HOURS, and 49 MINUTES on a project he resenting with gritted teeth. 

The night is nearly gone, and Matt still struggles. Today e’s he’s completed his rituatl. Any attempt to thwart the deadline that looms over his head. He’s done his stretches, his push-ups, his meditation, his jogging, his viewing of YouTube tutorials when coming across writer’s block, only to return to his computer desktop empty handed as a writer. Every impulse shrieks at him to remove the damned monitor and smash it on the driveway. A guttural angst rising, until, the lights go out. The lights go out, and the neighborhood quiets the rage in Mac’s belly. Every swear one can think of swims in the pool of Mac’s thorny thoughts. He closes his eyes. He breathes in and out and recalls what he practices through meditation. “It’s okay, bro-bro. It’s okay.” He chants through whispers. Everything reboots, but what captures his eyes is the eerie sigil that bears the image of a ram’s head. It blips onto his computer screen. He squints his eyes as electricity sprawls across his torso and snakes towards his head. His jaw unclenches as the muscles numb. “WHAAAAAZZ ISSSSSSHHHHH HAAAAPPPPEEEENNNNNING?!” Matt cries out as he vibrates and contorts.  

Lights have gone out again, and within an instant, his ceiling fan spins, his AC is returns, and his computer reboots. The fan below his desk blows heat to his shins. He turns around to witness his tower of paperwork that is sprawled across his living room. Paralyzed with both exhaustion and worry, his head throbs as he massages his eyelids with his fingers. He plants his palms onto the edge of the desk, and scoots away before he grabs that sledgehammer from his utility closet. “I need...to sleep.” He groans and nods slowly. “Yes! That’s right - I should just take my ass STRAIGHT to sleep.”  

Another hour has passed, and Mac lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling fan.  As it slowly rotates, Matt’s eyes close. He dreams of a world where he FINALLY submits his work, has a few YouTube videos praising and critiquing his skills as a writer, and getting that book club he’s always wanted to initiate. Waking up to the sensation of heat in his chest, and a chill in his bones, his eyes open and Mac doesn’t recall drifting. He reaches his phone by the lamp and sees the time and date: SEPTEMBER 6, 2024. Today is the LAST day. Thursday ruined his life last night, and Mac nearly forgot about it. He groans as he rests his arm across his eyes. Still, that trickling sensation still creeps. He can’t explain it, but he jolted out of his bed. His bed explodes and the splinters of wood from his floor pecks his skin.   

Erected before him, a steepling lion with the lean build of a man holds a sword with a curved edge. With grace and an abundance of LUCK, Mac pats his chest at the sight of his king size being cleaved in half. “HRM-HRM!” The older man-lion cleared his throat with obnoxious giggling. A wide grin takes possession of his muzzle as the crowned beast swings his blade yet again. Mac wields his pillow as his chosen weapon and holds it high as he's backed against a wall.   

”WHAT THE HELL IS GOIN ON?! WHO EVEN ARE YOU, MAN?! ARE YOU SERIOUS-” A thought pops in Mac’s head. Between the hot stream of adrenaline empowering his body and the furry lunatic who is invading his home, Mac notices something. The endless grinning,, the smoked beige coat of fur, the fiery curls of silver that is his mane, and those eyes! An orange of sunset that bears a likeness to a cat. What is in Mac’s home isn’t just any invader nor a convincing cosplayer, but Emperor Krushan of the Arknan Empire – a villain from Mac’s book. “Uhhhhhhhhh.....” Mac’s brain suddenly stops working. He glares at the royal adorned with rubies as red as the sclera in his eyes. The beast stands three feet away from the halved bed.  

”AH!!!” The Emperor’s smile stretches between pointed ears. Revealing the carnivorous rows of daggered teeth, he extends his arms wide. “That there...is the GREATEST flavor among them all.” His rasp voice shakes the very room as he shuts his eyes and lifts his head high. Whiffing the air filled with sweat and gas (on the part of Mac) and sighing with pleasure. “Now, what how shall I feast from your torment?” He drew closer with a solid step from his hind legs. The wooden planks beneath his feet creak. “Shall I flay and expose your bare self to the glorious sun? Disembowel you and watch you squirm as you crawl and beg for your life? Or should I simply tear through your gorgeous throat?”   

”Uh, no...” Mac can barely swallow, yet his parched throat continues to twitch upon reflex. “Neither option is okay by me...” Every instinct is telling him to shoulder the twisted lionkin that stands between him and his freedom, yet his gaze is met by the emperor’s sharp eyes. Eyes that bear that same frivolous nature that a cat possesses when watching a gecko drown in its water bowl. Mac is praying that he does NOT end up as that gecko. With his eyes shut, he takes a deep breath, only to forget that Emperor Krushan he created is an impatient ruler and an even brasher killer. A stench of blood exudes from his coat of fur. 

”Praying before your untimely demise?” His talon grazes against the cold black steel of his scimitar. “How quaint!” He growls with that stupid looking grin on his face.   

The Emperor raises his arm, but Mac throws his pillow onto his face. All of sudden, anger swelled within his chest – not fear. He explodes with balled fists. “Hey, man!” His bravado startles the Emperor. “Maybe you’re new to this scene, but it was I who made YOU!” For the first time, even unbeknownst to Mac, the cruel tyrant he’s imagined for three months appears puzzled – confused even. Krushan hesitates to act, his meaty fingers twitch but his blade is yet to be unleashed onto Mac’s flesh. The writer capitalizes as his cheeks warm with his goofy grin. “HA-HA! That’s right. YOU should be listenin to ME! I am the reason you exist! Me!” He clapped his chest as he paced around Emperor Krushan.   

He snarls with intrigue. As he continues to permeate with sweat, he keeps his eyes fixated onto Krushan as his fingers tap the wall until he reaches his closet. It did not matter WHAT he happened to find, he just thinks that if he’s gonna die at the hands of his own conceived character, he would at least die in decent apparel. Said decent apparel inevitably leads to a fuzzy champagne colored robe. “You are truly a queer sac of meat, aren’t you?” 

“Oh, you have no idea!” Mac pulls the belt around his robe.  

Krushan sheathes his curved sword. “Prove your claim then, scribemaester.”  

Thirty minutes have passed, not that Mac is THAT attentive to time. Despite having the meanest dictator of Arknah present at his kitchen table, Mac retains his calm. He sips his cup of coffee as the Emperor’s eyes scan his work. His ears twitch as his subtle growl vibrates the room. Mac hones his sights on his villain's expression. Though, it’s rather difficult to gauge when he wrote someone who is more lion than man. After all, it's that bladed sneer on his face that sticks.  

”What have you done.....” Emperor Krushan did not avert his eyes from the pages. Flip after flip, the booklet that Mac has worked on is now the object of his monster’s ire. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, BOY?” His thumbs pierce through the collage of paper. The two both suck their teeth in disappointment. “It seems your tongue holds true... But it is apparent that you have ruined me, young scribemaester...” he lies the unfinished book onto the table. The emperor laps the bitter dark roasted coffee with haste. “Ruined and humiliated by...HIM? I am defeated by that impish child?!” He hammers the table and crushes it in the process. "Zal! That burning thorn stuck to my backside!"  

”Damn, Krushan! C’mon, bro! My table!” Mac stands in protest, but is quieted by the emperor’s roar. For a brief moment, Mac is frozen, as if shards of ice have stabbed through his joints – rendering ANY motion useless. He snaps out of it, once Krushan calms down and scoots the writer to his desktop.   

”Mend this at once, scribemaester, and I will spare you from the most nightmarish death I’ve concocted for you.” The points of his talons tickle against Mac’s shoulders. He’s no fool. He knows that the emperor will have no trouble cutting through him like cheap butter. So, he types – except he cannot. With the encumbered respiring from Krushan’s searing warm breath, sweat from Mac's chin beads the keyboard below. .   

”Hey...uh - Krushan?” Despite being afraid, Mac turns his head to face the Emperor, only for the Emperor to return Mac’s eyes to the blank document on Microsoft Word. 

”EMPEROR Krushan, scribe.” He admonishes him with a low hum in his rasp. “LEARN it well, and REMEMBER: should you fail to rectify your farce, your nightmare shall commence.” It’s a shame, because Mac’s nightmare has already begun. It begun the day he came up with this stupid idea for this stupid book he’s been trying to write, and now that he’s signed up for this stupid competition against OTHER capable stupid writers, he’s dreamt away so much time. Even with the LITERAL emperor hovering above his head, he struggles to muster ANY resolve to actually finish the damned thing.   

”Okay... Emperor Krushan?” Mac hears no response but a light groan. "C'mon, big guy." He twirls his chair around to face Krushan. "You had to realize that at some point, that little Faerie was going to catch you. Say you cut me in two like you did my bed - still pissed about that - what then? I MADE YOU. Nobody else can make that claim." 

“Foolish scribe.” the Emperor pounds his hairy chest. “I am a warlord – a conqueror born within the sands of Hrasham. I have NO creator!” Drawing his weapon, warmth emits from the tip of Krushan's sword. A low growl quivers it little by little. Mac has no choice but to concede. He reflects on how strange it is to be held at swordpoint by his own fabricated villain. He thinks about how stupid he’s gonna look to be found dead in his house – more importantly in his robe. Submitting, Mac raises both hands and nods in accord.  

"Okay, Emperor. I see you.” He speaks with gritted teeth. “For real, I see you." He turns around to finish what he started three months ago. Power erupts within Mac's chest. His heart pounds with fury as the nearby windows of his home wobble. Wind...no - a gale thrashes through his front door. At this very moment, the electricity from the computer monitor gleams again. The ram sigil reveals itself yet again and sounds of laughter grow muffled. Like an electric pencil sharpener that grazes the ears with its whirring. Mac and Krushan both shield their ears from the horrid buzzing.  

*"HRM-HRM!" the Emperor clears his throat and bellows with gaping eyes. "So this was your ploy all along - was it, scribe?!” He whirls his sword, but the jarring laughter stiffens his movement. “You were merely biding your time to summon THAT THING!" He attempts yet another swing as Mac falls to the floor, but a spearhead deflected the assault. Tinged in gold resembling twin lightning bolts, a harmonic hum emits from their clash. Clanking that is so melodic and thunderous that Mac's ears deafened from impact.  

*"NO! NO-NO-NO-NO!" The Emperor roars louder and louder, and though Mac cannot hear very well, he can see the look of dread fill his face. Some comfort warms his heart as he envisions dying knowing that the Emperor is in good hands. Pollen of white sprays Mac’s body as he witnesses the small prince land on his bare feet of two toes. Humming emerges from the fluttering wings on his blue back. Eyes that reminds Mac of a bog, yet paneled like that of a fly. The chosen Prince of Faelom – Zalnut stands before him.  

"Greetings, Emperor Kuku!" the boy with the raging wings guffaws as Mac slowly makes his way towards his seat. He gets back to work and types his life away.  

“Inconceivable! You’re just a boy!” the Emperor breathes fire onto the ceiling. Mac pays that no heed and KEEPS typing. A battle between ensues between the Emperor of Arknah and the Faerie Prince of Faelom. No matter what is happening, even though fear grapples his neck, adrenaline clapping his heart, Mac's eyes glue to the green screen. Electricity sparkles through his very veins as he click and clacks away at the keyboard. His feet no longer touch the ground as a whirlwind lifts him up. Fire bursts from his combusted oven. His tv screen crackles from the streak of lightning sparkled from their clash. Their dance singe the floorboards.  

Mac cannot be bothered to turn and witness the fruit of his creative prowess kicking the Emperor’s, but he does cackle at the sounds of the Emperor’s frustrations. Looking onto the website he needs to submit to, he doesn’t waste time. He moves the mouse to click on SUBMIT. A width of his neck is slit. He assumes it comes from the Emperor and how he nearly came close to taking his head. 

Silence fills the room to its brim. The house is a mess, and Mac still has his head in tact. He is paralyzed – between the fear, the excitement, and the sheer joy that derives from spite. “It’s okay, bro-bro...” He takes a breath – a DEEP one and after closing his eyes, he feels...GOOD. Good enough to not care about the sparks of green electricity spurting from his fried computer. He glances at his house covered in scorched holes and claw swipes. He stares at the sheets of paper that have survived the storm as he has. Pulling them together, confidence inflates his chest, and he pulls out his notebook underneath his charred desk. He blows away the ash and dirt that stains it, and grabs a pencil and pen and runs rampant with the thrill of creation he nearly thought he lost.